


Fire and Brimstone

by akeijis



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Monster Hunters, Blood and Violence, Burn Fast Die Hard, Demon Hunters, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queerplatonic Relationships, Strangers to Lovers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vampires, Who has time for slow burns?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-11-03 09:25:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10964379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akeijis/pseuds/akeijis
Summary: It wasn't the first time Keith's found himself face to face with one of Hell's creatures, and it sure wouldn't be the last.  It used to be easy separating the demons from the humans around him, but recently he's found that maybe there are more demons inside us than anywhere else.





	1. Chapter 1

If there was one thing that Keith hated, it was sewers.

To be fair, there were a lot of things that Keith hated.  Mint flavored ice cream, women who carried tiny dogs in their purses, and Lance McClain were all great examples.  But at that particular moment, what he really hated was sewers.

He trudged along through the murky water in what had been his favorite and only pair of sneakers, hands buried into the pockets of his jeans and t-shirt pulled up over his nose and mouth in an attempt to try and block out the foul stench.  It was dark, and his cell phone had died five minutes into his using it as a flashlight.  But maybe that was for the best.  Without any light, he didn’t have to see the rats and shit surrounding him.  Keith laughed.  What a good metaphor for his life.  His socks were thoroughly soaked through and the bottoms of his jeans had gathered enough water to stick to his ankles.  The feeling sent a chill up his spine.

“ _It’ll be a quick job_ ,” he mocked, his voice sarcastically exaggerated and high pitched.  “ _Just in and out. You won’t get_ trapped down here with no way out and no phone!”  He yelled the last few words at the ceiling as though Pidge would actually hear him back at their apartment.

Something splashed in the water behind him and Keith froze.  He couldn’t see properly, but he turned around anyway and squinted through the oppressing darkness.  There were ripples in the water, and Keith wondered for a moment if one of the rats had gotten sick of the smell and decided to drown itself.  The thought had crossed his own mind a few times already.

As though trying to be ominous, a few bubbles surfaced from the center of the ripples, and Keith narrowed his eyes.  They were either the last few breaths of a now blissfully dead rat, or something was about to jump out of the water and kill him.  He could only hope for the latter.

A hand shot out of the water, reaching from its six inch depth to grasp at the air.  It wasn’t a human hand.  About half the size and with only four webbed fingers, the hand curled into a fist and slammed against the water’s surface.  It splashed onto Keith’s shirt, and he maturely kicked water back at it.  Pulling out his knife, he stalked over to the source of the ripples and didn’t hesitate to plunge a hand in.  His fingers brushed along wet, slimey hair, and he had to repress a gag.  He yanked whatever was in the water out and was greeted with a ball of sewer sludge thrown into his face.

“Ugh,” Keith sputtered, flinging whatever he was holding with all his might at the wall.  It hit with a wet squelch and squeak as Keith furiously wiped his face with the collar of his shirt.  Some of the sludge spilled into his mouth, and he doubled over, stomach heaving and hurling it’s contents into the already disgusting water.  It took him a few moments to recover, his face partially covered in sludge and bile spilled down his shirt.  

He was going to kill Pidge.  

Right after he killed this little piece of shit.  

The piece of shit was also taking a moment to recover, weakly squirming where it’d fallen on the small ledge along the sewer wall.  Keith still couldn’t fully see it, but he could make out that it had four limbs and was entirely covered in hair.  Didn’t really matter.  It’d be dead soon.

With his knife in hand, Keith tromped over to the creature with every intention of ripping it to pieces.  In an attempt to assert his dominance, he spat at it with the bile still in his mouth and went to stomp down on one of its limbs.  Recovering with a speed that Keith hadn’t anticipated, the thing sprang to its feet and grabbed hold of Keith’s ankle with both of its slimy little hands, knocking him off balance.  

Before he even realized he was falling, the back of his head hit the water and the cement below.  His vision flashed white for a moment, and he prayed that he’d just died.  The icy chill surrounding him now had to be death, and not the disgusting, vomit filled water that he’d just been standing in.  Teeth sank into his ankle and Keith yelled.  It didn’t necessarily hurt but it did confirm that he was still alive and mostly submerged in sewage.  

Keith really hated sewers.

He jerked his leg up so the thing was tossed into the air, landing with a splat in the water beside him.  Without any hesitation, Keith pushed himself up so he was sitting in the filth and stabbed his knife into the water.  It hit cement and he groaned in frustration.  He just wanted to go home, and this stupid thing couldn’t just not move for a second so he could kill it.  

The teeth bit again at his leg, and Keith repeated stabbing the water.  This time he managed to plunge the knife into the creature, and he pulled it up to see it’s little body impaled on the blade.  For the sake of being sure it was dead, and a bit for his pride, Keith yanked it off and held it in his lap, before sinking the knife into it again.  What he could only describe as green blood squirted out of it and into his face.  

His stomach heaved, and this time the vomit landed in his lap.

 

 

When Keith had initially climbed down into hell, otherwise known as the sewer system, the sun had just been beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the city.  He'd felt good, the warm early autumn day having cooled down enough to make him wonder if he should have worn a sweatshirt.  

By the time he clawed his way back out of the the city’s bowels, it was dark.  And cold.  And he was miserable, soaked from head to foot in sewage, vomit, and what he assumed was goblin blood.  He had no idea what time it was, but the streets were pretty much deserted.  Which was lucky, since he was carrying the mangled corpse of the sewer dweller he’s just stabbed the death.  

The lights were on in the windows of his apartment when he finally reached the front of the building, and he silently thanked the Lord that Pidge was still awake.  His keys had disappeared somewhere between entering the sewer and getting mauled by a two foot furry sack of shit, and his phone was now a thoroughly soaked through deadweight in his pocket.  He jabbed at the buzzer and waited, leaning against the door.  

“Hello?”

Pidge’s voice was muffled as it came through the speaker, and Keith jabbed the buzzer again.  

“Let me in.”  There was some static over the intercom, and Keith grabbed the door handle, tugging, but it didn't open.  “Pidge,” he prompted.  “Open the door.”

“What's the password?” came Pidge's incredibly annoying voice again, and Keith nearly screamed.

“I'm going to shove your glasses down your throat if you don't open this fucking door right now.”

He heard Pidge laugh, and he considered how long it would take to suffocate them with this gremlin when he finally got upstairs.  

“That's correct!”  

The door buzzed and Keith ripped it open, letting it slam shut as he began climbing the stairs.  Their apartment was a single bedroom that resided two floors above the worst Chinese takeout place either of them had ever been to and yet ate at nearly every other night.  The carpet on the stairs was covered in a thick layer of dirt and grime that he was sure had never been cleaned, and the smell reminded him of the dumpster in the alleyway around the corner.  

He pounded on the door once he reached it, entirely unconcerned about waking their neighbors.  For all he knew it wasn't even that late, although it had felt like hours went by when he was trying to find his way out of the sewer.  The lock clicked and the door opened enough for him to see Pidge, their hair pushed back with a headband and glasses slipping down the bridge of their nose.  Their eyes widened as they took in the sight of him, from his disgusting hair to the furball in his hand, before slamming the door shut again and locking it.

“What the fuck?” Keith yelled, banging on the door again.  “I swear to God, Pidge!”

“Hold on,” came their muffled voice.

It didn't take long for the door to open again, and Keith immediately noticed the trail of newspapers and broken down cardboard boxes that lead from the front door to the bathroom.  He rolled his eyes, stepping over the threshold onto that morning’s front page.  

“Why the fuck did you bring that thing home?” Pidge asked, their face screwed up in disgust as they stepped far enough away from Keith that he couldn't reach out and touch them with the creature.  

“I thought you'd like a present,” he shot back, throwing it into the tub once he reached the bathroom.  Water poured from the tap as he turned the handle, and he pulled off his shoes as it heated up.  

Pidge stood just outside the open door, arms crossed and nose scrunched up against the smell emanating from him.  “I'm gonna regift it to the dumpster.  What is it?  A gremlin?”

“Either that or a hobgoblin.  Hard to tell when it's covered in shit.”  

He pulled up the tab on the faucet and water sprayed out of the shower head.  Without bothering to undress or close the bathroom door, he stepped into the tub and pulled the curtain shut.  He heard Pidge move into the room, and didn't have to see them to know they were sitting on the counter.

“You smell.”

“Thanks.  I appreciate it.”  

Keith tugged his shirt over his head and let it fall onto the floor of the tub.  His pants and boxers were quick to follow.  No amount of soap was going to make him feel clean, but he scrubbed anyway, watching the water turn brown as it ran off his legs.  He looked up at the shower head and opened his mouth, wondering how long it would take to drown himself, but decided against it.  Pidge didn’t need to clean two dead pieces of shit out of their tub.  

He washed himself four times over, even going as far as to try Pidge’s shampoo, but nothing he did could get rid of the disgust he felt clinging to every inch of him.  Sewers were the worst place in the world.  He’d rather go straight to Hell than ever set foot in a sewer again.  

When he finally accepted that he was never going to be truly clean, he turned off the water and pulled back the curtain.  Pidge was still sitting on the counter, playing with his deceased phone and completely ignoring him as he made to grab a towel.  He dried off his hair before wrapping it around his waist.  When he was covered, Pidge looked up, tossing the phone back onto the floor.  

“I can’t believe you got your ass kicked by a gremlin,” Pidge grinned, leaning forward with their hands on their knees.  “You’ve walked away from a banshee with less than a scratch, and a gremlin still sent you home looking like a fucking slug.”

“Hobgoblin,” Keith corrected, pointing at the now relatively clean remains in the bathtub.  “And shut up.”

“You’re cleaning that up, by the way.  You bring a dead gremlin home, it’s your responsibility.  That’s just common courtesy.”

“Hobgoblin.”

“You say that like it makes it better, but it still kicked your ass, and that’s still pathetic.”

Keith left the bathroom, not really in the mood to discuss lower level demon semantics.  He pulled a pair of boxers out of the pile of unfolded laundry and held them up, trying to discern if they were his or Pidge’s.  Deciding it didn’t matter, he pulled them on, tossing the towel over his shoulder.  The couch was calling him, and he flopped down on it, groaning as the sunken cushions engulfed him.  His legs hurt and there was a dull ache in back on his head from where he’d smacked it against the ground.  

“Hey.”  

He looked around in time to catch the bottle Pidge threw at him.  The orange plastic made his chest tighten, and he didn’t have to read the label to know what it said.  

 _Keith Kogane_  
_Zyprexa_  
_Take one (1) tablet a day orally until instructed by your doctor to cease treatment._

“They called today because you didn’t pick it up,” Pidge commented, turning their back on him and heading into the kitchen.  “Try to actually take them.  If you start screaming that the walls are bleeding again, I want know it’s actually happening.”

Keith tossed the bottle onto the coffee table and leaned his head back against the couch, his eyes falling shut.  “Shut up. That was one time.”

“One time too many.  Do you want takeout?”

“Not tonight.  I’ve swallowed enough crap.”

 

 

The problem with owning only one pair of shoes was that after they get completely ruined, you were shit out of luck and shoeless.  Keith’s single pair were still in the bathroom when he stumbled in at six in the morning, hair sticking up magnificently and dark circles under his eyes.  He’d planned on taking a shower, still able to smell the filth that had settled into his very soul, but changed his mind as soon as he spotted the furball still lying dead in the tub. Instead he stuck his head under the sink, letting the water soak into his hair so he’d be able to flatten it out.  

He didn’t think about how ruined his shoes were until he stuck a foot into one, feeling warm, thick water ooze out of the sole.  His stomach heaved and he kicked the shoe off his with enough force to send it into the wall.  His sock was yanked off and tossed away, and he stormed off into the bedroom to find a pair of Pidge’s.

Of course, he couldn’t squeeze his foot into Pidge’s shoe no matter how hard he tried.  

It was too early to try and find his way barefoot through the city to work and he was getting dangerously close to running late.  He sat on the floor for a moment, listening to Pidge snoring in bed, thinking.  A thought crossed his mind, and he cursed under his breath, but right now he wasn’t in a position to ignore it.  Even if it meant calling on the Devil himself for help.  

He crawled across the floor to find Pidge’s phone, unlocking it and opening their messages.

**To Lance [6:37am]:**

_It’s Keith. Can you stop by on your way and bring me shoes._

**From Lance [6:38am]:**

_How do you know I’m even working today?_

**To Lance [6:38am]:**

_Just help me out._

**From Lance [6:40am]:**

_Fine but you owe me. Be there in five._

Keith spent those five minutes on Pidge's floor trying to make his stiff khakis feel any less uncomfortable.  Nothing he did worked, and eventually he gave up and flopped over dramatically.  

Relying on Lance for help left a foul taste in his mouth.  He'd known Lance for over a year now, ever since he'd managed to find a legitimate part-time job stocking shelves at the Target downtown. It was monotonous and soul sucking and to make matters worse, they were always scheduled to work together.  Every damn shift.  

He knew the Devil had it out for him, but that was just cruel.

Pidge’s phone buzzed again and Keith realized he'd been staring off into the darkness under the bed.  He blinked a few times to gather himself before getting up, adjusting his pants in a last failed attempt to make them a little more comfortable.  Leaving his useless phone in the bathroom and locking the door handle behind him, Keith left, taking the stairs two at a time down to the street.  

He opened the door and without warning a shoe hit him in the shoulder.

“Catch,” Lance laughed, throwing the other one before he'd even gotten the whole word out.  Keith managed to catch it, glaring and balancing on one leg to pull it on.  “Those scraps of canvas you try to pass off as shoes finally give out on you?”

“Something like that,” Keith mumbled, straightening up and walking away.  Despite the fact that they were both going to the same place, Keith hoped Lance wouldn't follow him.  He did.  

“Mondays always suck.”  Lance stretched his arms above his head and yawned, falling into step beside Keith, who blatantly didn’t look at him. “I could sleep for two whole days and still wake up tired on a Monday.”  Keith noticed Lance looking at him out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t say anything.  Lance took the silence as permission to keep talking.  “You get up to anything fun this weekend?”

Keith thought about the sewer and dead furball in his bathtub.  

“No.”

As Lance had predicted it would, Monday sucked.  Maybe it was the all too chipper attitude of his manager, or the too bright fluorescents that gave the aisles a sterile feel, but Keith felt time dragging around him.  He’d situated himself in one of the aisles, box cutter in hand as he proceeded to rip open cardboard and stack boxes of tissues onto the shelves.  Monotony at it’s finest.  

Keith was one lost soccer mom away from ‘Do-You-Know-Where-I-Can-Find’ bingo when Pidge showed up, Chinese takeout in hand, and Keith took his break to eat with them.  

“You have another job tonight,” they informed him through a mouthful of teriyaki chicken, the container dangerously balanced on their knee as they sat outside, backs against the building.  “A haunting.”

“Do I finally get to make you stop following me and banish you back to hell where you belong?”

“It’s at a bar not too far from the apartment.  The guy said he was closed today, so it’d be the best time for you to go.”  Pidge picked up a piece of chicken on their fork and threw it at Keith.  It landed on his khakis.  “Don't be a dick.”

“Don't throw chicken at me,” Keith countered, trying to wipe the teriyaki sauce off his pants.  “It's a waste.”

“It's better than eating it.  I'm pretty sure this isn't even chicken.”

Keith plucked a piece from their box and put it in his mouth.  There was no question.  It wasn't chicken.  “If we both die from this food, I want you to know that I've never actually liked you.”

The next piece hit him in the face.

 

 

The bar was only a couple blocks away from the apartment, but Keith took his time walking there, in no rush to throw himself at whatever was supposedly haunting it.  Pidge had said the guy specifically called it ‘haunted’, meaning that he probably couldn’t see the thing causing trouble for him.  That wasn’t a comforting thought, and Keith groaned.  Invisible stuff was always harder to get rid of, for all the obvious reasons.  

He took his hat off and held it in his teeth as he tied back his hair, squinting when the sun got into his eyes.  It was starting to set already, and Keith lamented the death of long, warm days.  He enjoyed fall, but he didn’t enjoy needing three jackets and a scarf to feel like he wasn’t turning to ice.  Especially when this job forced him outside at night more often than any good samaritan should be.

Keith rounded a corner and spotted the bar across the street, its windows dark and open sign unlit.  He paused, squinting, before glancing up and down the street and crossing to it.  He refit the hat on his head, pulling his ponytail through the back, before trying the handle.  Despite looking closed, the door opened, and Keith stepped inside, a bell ringing above his head.  The place had some lights on, but they were so dim they were practically pointless.  The wooden bar was deserted, as were the few tables scattered around the open floor.  Bottles lined the back shelf and tacky posters covered the walls, encouraging people to not drink and drive or to listen to their bartender.  It was like someone ripped this place from a bad sitcom and it made Keith laugh.

He crossed to the bar, leaning over it and glancing towards the door that he assumed led to the kitchen, wondering if anyone was there.  Surely the owner wouldn’t have just left the door unlocked, but then again this city was full of idiots.  He considered hopping the wood and shoving the jar of the artificial cherries he spotted on the shelf into his pocket.  

“Can I help you?”

The voice came from so close behind him that Keith jumped, slamming his ribs into the bar and coughing as the air was forced from his lungs.  He wheeled around, a hand raised as though ready to fight, and was only half convinced he’d see someone standing behind him.

Keith wondered, as his eyes fell on the man who’d spoken, if the Devil was apologizing to him.  

He was attractive in the conventional sense of the word, with broad shoulders and high cheekbones and biceps that looked like they could rip the sleeves of his muscle shirt if he wasn’t careful.  But he was also attractive in the unconventional sense, with dark hair that faded to stark white in the front and a scar that crossed the bridge of his nose.  One of his arms was mechanical, and Keith caught himself staring at it.

The man had his mecha-arm crossed with his flesh one over his chest, one impeccably sharp eyebrow raised as he looked at Keith, who suddenly wished he’d put in a little more effort than throwing on a hoodie and stained-to-hell jeans. Keith watched the man’s eyes travel down his chest before back up to his face, and had the sudden urge to cover himself.  Or to take his shirt off.  He wasn’t sure.  

“Uh, yeah,” Keith managed after blatantly staring at the man for longer than he should have.  He lowered his fist.  “You called about a ghost or something?”

Realization dawning on the man’s face, he let out a laugh that felt like a punch in Keith’s gut.  “You’re not what I expected.  Figured you were trying to rob me.”

“That jar of cherries might be gone when I leave, so you're not entirely wrong,” Keith shrugged.  “What were you expecting?  Bill Murray himself?”

“At least the jumpsuit,” the man admitted with a laugh.  Keith nearly doubled over as the proverbial fist nailed his gut again.  He held out a hand and Keith took a moment to take in the smooth metal before shaking it.  “And if you can actually get rid of this thing, the cherries are yours.  You have a name?”

“Yeah.”  Keith let go of his hand and pulled his eyes away from the hinged joints, making his way around him into the middle of the bar.  There weren't any signs of damage other than scuffs on the floor and a dent in the wall by the dart board.  Usually there'd be signs; broken glass, stains on the walls, things floating.  But there was nothing, and Keith wondered if this guy was making it up.  He turned back to ask what exactly he’d seen, but was thrown off by the man’s expression.  It didn't take him long to realize his mistake.  “Oh, sorry. It's Keith.”

“Keith,” he repeated, as though weighing the name on his tongue.  “I'm Shiro.”

“So what's the problem exactly?  Pidge said you reported this place as haunted, but it doesn't look like anything’s been here.”

Shiro hummed and gestured for Keith to follow him.  He rounded the bar and pushed open the door into the kitchen.  It looked clean, and Keith glanced around for any signs something was there, but came up short again.  He made to tell Shiro, but he hadn't stopped walking, instead going to pull open a second door that led to a staircase.

Keith let out a sigh that was dangerously close to a moan.  “There's a basement. Excellent. I love clichés.”

Shiro laughed and flipped a switch on the wall to turn a light on at the bottom of the steps.  “I think if this was a true cliché I'd be taking you down here to kill you.”

“God, please, do it.”  

Keith passed Shiro without hesitation and took the stairs two at a time.  The stench of musk and alcohol hit him as he reached the bottom and he glanced into what appeared to be a storage room, boxes stacked on the shelving that lined the walls.  There was glass shattered on the floor in puddles of brown liquor, and a lot of the boxes were ripped open.  

“Hey, be careful,” came Shiro’s voice from the top of the steps and no less than a second later, a bottle came flying from nowhere to smash against the wall by Keith's head.  

“Fuck!”

Keith hit the deck, broken glass digging into his hands as they smacked against the concrete floor.  Another bottle smashed above him and he was doused in what smelt like rubbing alcohol but he assumed was more likely vodka.  He looked up, desperately searching the empty room, and noticed another bottle pulling itself out of one of the boxes.  Scrambling to his feet, Keith bolted up the steps, slamming the door shut behind him just as the bottle smashed into the wall.

“It throws bottles,” Shiro explained.

Keith pulled a piece of glass from his palm and threw it at Shiro.  “You didn't think to mention that before I went down there?”

“I didn't think you'd just run right in,” Shiro tried to justify himself but was met with another small piece of glass hitting his cheek.  “Is it a ghost?”

“Poltergeist,” Keith corrected.  “Ghosts don't usually pick stuff up like that.  And you probably have a lot of stupid, emotional people in here a lot.”  Shiro cocked his head to the side, giving Keith a confused look, and Keith sighed.  “Negative energy can make them appear. You get a bunch of drunk, angry people in a room for long enough, and one will show up.”

“So how do you get rid of it?” Shiro asked, glancing at the door as another crash came from downstairs.  

Keith was no longer listening, looking around the kitchen.  He jogged over to the industrial sized oven and grabbed a pan off the range.  He tested its weight in his hands for a moment before swinging it like a bat.  Seeming satisfied, he went back to the door.  Shiro watched him with raised eyebrows, catching Keith's elbow in his hand as he went to pull it open.  

“How do you get rid of it?” he asked again, looking at the pan in Keith's hand.  

“I'm going to tell it to leave.”

Shiro blinked.  “Tell it to leave?”

“Yeah.  And say some scripture if that doesn't work.”

“And the pan?”

“You expect me to go down there and get my head smashed in without any sort of shield?”

That seemed good enough for Shiro, because he let go of Keith's arm and stepped back so he could open the door.  Keith stepped down the first few steps slowly, keeping an eye out for any floating bottles.  He spotted one as it was hurled at him, and he ducked, quickly hiding behind the pan.  The bottle smacked against it and landed on the step below.  Keith snatched it up and shot it back towards where it came from.  It stopped in midair, and Keith jumped the last few steps, hearing glass crunch under his feet.  

“Get out!” he yelled, pointing the pan at the floating bottle.  “Leave this place.  You're not welcome here!”  The bottle flew back at him and he batted it against the wall.   “Fuck you too.”

It took ten minutes, three more broken bottles, and a pack of margarita salt before Keith was slumped at the bar, drenched from head to toe and smelling like dirty martini.  There were shards of glass in his palms and in the soles of Lance’s shoes.  It hurt more to pull them out than to leave them there.  

Shiro had put the jar of artificial cherries down in front of him, now leaning on the bar across from him with a stem sticking from between his lips. Keith picked out his own cherry, licking it before ripping it off it's stem with his teeth.  

“Do you want a drink?”

He looked up at Shiro, who was smiling at him in a way that Keith was sure could give someone heart palpitations.  Not him, but someone.  

“Ginger ale?”

Shiro raised one sharp eyebrow before turning to grab a glass.  “Anything in it?”

“Yeah. Do you have any of those little umbrellas?”

Shiro laughed and Keith put his head down on the bar, groaning.  It wasn't fair for someone to laugh like that.  He wanted to hear it over and over, and simultaneously never hear it again.  

“So do you own this place?” he asked, forehead pressed against the cool wood.  “Or were you just the one stuck working on the ghost removal shift.”

Another laugh, another punch to the gut. “No, I own it.  A friend and I opened it about two years ago, but she left so now it's mine.”  

The drink was placed in front of him and Keith pulled his head up.  His eyes fell on the small pink umbrella resting against the rim of the glass, and he snorted, raising an arm to cover his face.

“I was joking,” he laughed, plucking it from the glass and twirling it between in fingers.  “I can't believe you actually have these.”

“You'd be surprised how many people ask for them.”  Shiro was holding his own glass, reclaiming his spot across the bar from Keith.  “I feel like I've seen you before.”

Keith reached to drop the umbrella into Shiro's drink.  “It's not a big city.  We've probably crossed paths.  I spend most of my life putting boxes on shelves, so if you've ever been to Target, you probably saw me.”

“So being a ghostbuster isn't a full time job?”

“It's more of a hobby,” Keith shrugged.  “God doesn't bless me with enough demons to make a living from it.  And I get paid in artificial cherries and cocktail umbrellas, which most places won't accept as rent money.”

Shiro hummed and pulled one of the aforementioned cherries from the jar, pulling it off the stem with his teeth.  Keith watched as he chewed, and the urge to retrieve the fruit from his tongue with his own hit him like a truck.  It made him almost choke on his mouthful of soda, and he swallowed hard to keep it from spraying out his mouth.  

“Maybe I can take you to dinner to pay you back then?”

At that, Keith really did choke.  The glass hit the wood hard as he put it down, coughing and spluttering and suddenly forgetting the basic function of his lungs. He'd survived countless attacks on his life and twelve small words killed him in one blow.  It was like beating a dead horse when Shiro laughed again.

“Yeah,” Keith managed after recovering.  “Sure. That sounds good.”

“Here.”  Shiro reached behind the bar and pulled out a napkin and pen.  “What's your number?”

“Uh,” Keith hesitated.  “Let me give you my roommate’s.  My phone drowned.”

Shiro raised an eyebrow.  “Drowned?”

“I dropped it in the toilet,” Keith deadpanned, reaching for the pen and scribbling Pidge's number onto the napkin.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

The indent in the couch cushion had started to sink deeper the longer Keith sat on it, feet propped up on the coffee table and game controller in hand.  There were matching indents in the tips of his fingers from where he’d been pounding buttons, shooting at the pixelated aliens trying to kill him.  The sun was high outside the window, and the glare against the TV screen made it hard to see, but Keith didn’t bother getting up to close the curtains.  An empty coffee cup rested on the table by his bare feet, the unopened pill bottle laying on it’s side behind it.  

An alien jumped out of nowhere and Keith smashed the button to shoot it, but it was nearly impossible to see where he was aiming with the glare.  A moment later, pixelated blood splattered across the screen, followed by the ever cheerful message of:  _ you died. _

Keith could only wish.  

“Have you seen my glasses?” came Pidge’s voice from the bedroom, and Keith craned his neck to look over towards the door.  Pidge didn’t say anything else, and Keith sighed, swinging his legs down and dropping the controller onto the table.  He shoved his hands between the cushions, finding nothing but some old popcorn kernels and what he sincerely hoped wasn’t a piece of orange chicken.  It was, and he made a fake gagging noise as he pushed himself up to go throw it away.  

Pidge came out of the bedroom, hair pushed back by their headband and arms laden with textbooks and notepads.  They marched over the middle of the living room and dumped their load onto the floor.  

“How did I lose them?  They literally sit on my face.”

Keith shrugged as he looked at them over the kitchen counter, running his hand under the faucet to try and wash off the sticky sauce.  “You didn’t sleep with them on, did you?  They might be in the bed.”

“I looked,” Pidge huffed, making a move as if to push the non-existent glasses up the bridge of their nose, and nearly poking themselves in the eye.  Keith laughed, and Pidge flipped him off.  “Maybe the bathroom…”  

Keith grabbed the dishtowel and dried off his hands as Pidge scuttled off to look, leaving the mess of books in the middle of the floor for Keith to step over as he made his way back to the couch.  There was a time in the not too distant past when he would have sat down on the floor with his own pile, reading and writing out textbooks’ worth of notes on theories of physics that he probably couldn’t remember now even if he tried.  It was a nostalgic feeling now, like something he had long left behind and couldn’t return to, even though in reality there was nothing stopping him from plopping himself down right there and opening one of the books.  

He tripped over  _ Quantum Mechanics of the Interstellar Medium  _ and couldn’t help but feel that somehow it was trying to pull him back in.

A smell had slowly been wafting its way into the living room since Pidge had disappeared into the bathroom, and Keith finally noticed when he slumped back onto the couch and took a deep breath.  It burned in the back of his throat, and as if thrown to sea, his stomach began to churn inside him.  He brought a hand to his nose, trying to block out the stench.

“What  _ is _ that?” he hissed, more to himself than to Pidge, but they answered anyway as they came back into the living room, glasses perched on the bridge of their nose. 

“Your pet that you haven’t cleaned up yet,” they shot at him, accusingly pointing back into the bathroom, before kicking the door shut.  “I think it’s decomposing.” 

Keith sighed, trying to ignore how his stomach tried to abandon ship up his throat as he got another whiff.  “That makes two of us.” 

There was a thump and a groan as Pidge plopped themselves onto the floor, pulling the book Keith had tripped over in front of them, and opened it.  Keith leaned forward, going to pick the controller up off the table, before noticing the pill bottle that had been lying there, unopened, since Pidge had thrown it at him two nights ago.  With a roll of his eyes and a sigh meant to get Pidge’s attention, he picked up the bottle and headed to the kitchen to grab a cup.

“Don’t act like taking a pill is that hard for you,” Pidge commented, their eyes never leaving the page they were reading.  “I know how good you are at it.” 

Keith pushed up the tap of the faucet and shoved a cup under the stream of lukewarm water.  At the comment, he cupped his hand under it as well, and tossed what water he could manage to hold at Pidge.  It splashed onto their notes.  The look Keith received was deadly.  

“I’m out of practice,” Keith shrugged, ignoring the dagger Pidge was mentally trying to plunge into him.  He opened the bottle and pointedly pulled a pill out, placing it on his tongue, and used the water to wash it back while Pidge watched.  “Happy?”

Pidge just looked back at their notes, using the sleeve of their shirt to try and dry up the wet splotches that made the ink run.  He left the bottle open on the counter as he went back to the couch, this time purposefully kicking Pidge’s book on his way.  Pidge responded by pounding their fist into the back of his knee, making it buckle and causing Keith to trip again.  

“Can you  _ not _ this morning?” they snapped at him.  “I’m not in the mood.” 

Keith sprawled himself on the couch, letting his head hang off the end closest to them.  “What’s wrong, Pidgeon?  Exam later?”

“Yeah, but I’m not worried about that,” they huffed, digging a hand into the pocket of their jeans and pulling out their phone.  “I got some stupid text that I think is someone in my class harassing me.”

“Let me see.”  Keith reached and plucked the phone out of Pidge’s hands, thumbing in the passcode and opening the messages.

**From Unknown Number [9:43am]:**

_ So besides candy cherries, what else do you like to eat? ;) _

It started small, but before he could stop it, the laugh that was growing in this chest spilled past his lips, and he nearly choked on it.  He read the message again, rolling away onto his back and holding the phone over his face.  

_ Really, Shiro?  _ Keith thought, shaking his head to himself as more small laughs reverberated in his chest.   _ That’s so lame _ .  But there was something about the lameness that made Keith’s cheek flush a bit, and his tongue slid across his lips as he read over those few words again.  

“God, what is wrong with you?” Pidge asked, interrupting his thoughts.  They pushed themselves onto their knees, reaching to snatch the phone back from Keith.  “You sound like a dying mule when you laugh like that.” 

“Shut up, no I don’t,” Keith laughed, the sound a bit choked as he tried to swallow it back down.  He tried to grab the phone back but Pidge swatted his hand.  “It’s for me, let me answer it.”

Pidge disregarded him completely, shoving the phone back into their pocket, and turned back to the textbook.  Keith, unfortunately, knew better than to push the issue.  Pidge, when in a bad mood, was far worse than any demon Keith could think of, and getting the phone back right now was not worth getting his head bitten off.  So instead, he slumped back onto the couch, reaching for the controller on the coffee table.  He didn’t have anything to do today other than mindlessly shoot aliens and walk down two flights of stairs to restock their fridge with teriyaki chicken, so he figured he may as well get back to it. 

It had barely been twelve hours and Shiro had already texted him.  If Keith hadn’t known better, he would have said it looked desperate.  But there was no way in hell that someone who looked like  _ that  _ was desperate for a date. Assuming, of course, that a date was what Shiro had meant by ‘ _ maybe I can take you to dinner _ ’. Keith wasn’t going to bother with feeling paranoid about mistaking his intentions, because either way, he was getting a free meal out of it.  And if he kept telling himself it didn’t matter, then maybe he might actually start believing it. 

Keith’s fingers had stopped moving, his character standing still and slowly being devoured by the alien monsters.  He blinked a few times, his vision having slipped out of focus while he was thinking. After a moment of watching, blood splattered across the screen, and the friendly message of his death floated in front of him eyes, along with the question:  _ Continue? _  The arrow blinked by the  _ Yes _ option again, and again, and Keith blinked too, losing his grip on the controller and letting it fall into his lap.  

What if he was reading way too much into this?

He probably way, honestly.  He had been an absolute  _ shit show _ last night.  God, it was probably out of pity that Shiro asked him to dinner.  It wasn’t hard to tell that Keith didn’t eat properly, considering he was all of twelve pounds soaking wet.  

Pity. He didn’t want pity from Shiro. 

But if it wasn’t pity, and he said no, then what?

What if he said yes?

Yes to what though?

“ _ Keith _ !” 

Keith sucked air into his lungs, suddenly realizing he’d been suffocating.  He blinked, his vision not focusing as he stared down at the controller on his lap.  It took all his energy to lift his head, squinting from the sunlight pouring in through the open window.  The blurred form of Pidge was standing next to the couch, an arm outstretched as though about to touch him.  Keith pushed the air from his chest and pulled more in, physically making himself breath since his body seemed to forget to do it on its own.  

“I’ll get you a drink,” he heard Pidge say, his vision still blurred to the point of not being able to see their mouth move properly.  Keith tried to nod, but he wasn’t sure he actually managed it.  His body didn’t seem to want to move, and Keith knew better than to try and force it.  In and out. He had to focus on pushing air in and out until his lungs figured out what the fuck they were supposed to be doing.  

_ In. _

_ Out. _

_ In. _

_ Out. _

_ In. _

Too fast. He was breathing too fast, and it was starting to make his head dizzy, but he continued, scared to stop in case his lungs didn’t do the work themselves.  His vision had started to fade worse than it already was.  Fuck.  He dropped his head into his hands, still forcing his breath in and out.  It was starting to hurt his chest.  

“Keith.”  

He felt a wet touch to his hand and he jerked backwards, head spinning as blood rushed to his eyes.  His vision faded out entirely for a moment and he swayed, nearly collapsing onto the couch, but the wet hand caught him and held him upright.

“Keith, slow down.  In for five, out for five, like the doctors told you.  How long were you off your meds?”

It was too much speaking for Keith’s brain to really keep up with and he squeezed his eyes closed.  He tried desperately to count to five as he sucked his next lungful in but his body seemed to be against him.  He hiccuped, choking on the excess of saliva, and shook his head desperately.  He wanted this to stop.  

There was a weight on his lap and arms wrapped around his shoulders, and he leaned in to bury his face into Pidge’s shoulder.  He could feel the rise and fall of their chest as it pressed against his, and he desperately tried to match it, breathing in time with them.  Slowly, his body adjusted to it, and Keith managed to move his arms to wrap around Pidge’s waist, holding them against him.  Thankfully, Pidge didn’t try and speak again, giving Keith time to calm back down.  They held each other tightly, Pidge rocking them gently as they sat in Keith’s lap, and he could feel their fingers rubbing small circles into his back through his shirt.  

It was pathetic to need to be coddled like this, but Keith had long since accepted how pathetic he was.

“How long were you off your meds?” Pidge asked again, their voice barely above a whisper but close enough to Keith’s ear that there was no way for him to not hear.  

Keith shrugged, not lifting his face from Pidge’s shoulder. Honestly, he didn’t have an answer for them.  It could have been two weeks, it could have been a month.  He couldn’t remember the last time he took them.  Not that he had been avoiding it, but after his last bottle ran out, he just didn’t think to refill it.  

“You’re supposed to take it every day--”

“ _ I know _ ,” Keith managed to choke out, accidentally drooling onto Pidge’s shoulder from the excess spit that had accumulated in his mouth.  He didn’t bother trying to wipe it off, instead forcing himself to swallow to try and clear it out.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  “I know. I didn’t mean to stop.”

Pidge just let out a slow breath beside Keith’s ear, and he shook his head.  He knew without having to look at their face that they were disappointed.  After the last time he’d forgotten, he’d promised he’d never do it again.  And the time before that, he’d promised. And the time before that.  And he was sure he’d promise next time too.

“You gotta study,” he mumbled, nuzzling into Pidge’s shoulder before pulling back enough to look at them.  Even through his still blurred vision, he could see the look of concern on their face.  He tried to force his face into a sheepish smile, still shaking, but at least his lungs had kicked back into gear.  Pushing at their waist, he nodded at the pile of textbooks still taking up most of the floor.  “Study.”

Pidge stayed put on his lap.  “We should call them… It’s getting bad again.”

“It’s not,” he insisted, giving them another push.  “The pills work fine. It was a one time thing, because I wasn’t taking them.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Keith bit his tongue, swallowing hard.  “The pills work fine.”

Pidge frowned, letting out a slow breath, before finally shaking their head and pushing themself off his lap.  They looked almost disappointed in him, and Keith felt guilt drop like a rock into his stomach.  But he didn’t say anything.  Pidge turned to go back to their books, plopping back down and running a hand through their hair, dislodging the headband.  

“One more time and I call,” they said firmly, and Keith didn’t have it in him to argue.  He took a deep breath and rubbed at his eyes, annoyed at himself for cracking in front of them, but let it go.  If he’d been alone, he knew it would’ve been worse. 

An idea stuck him and he glanced back at Pidge.  

“Can I answer that message now? It really is for me,” he asked, taking advantage of their momentary sympathy.  

Pidge turned to look at him, and just from the expression on their face, he knew they were going to give in.  After a moment, Pidge sighed, shifting where they sat to pull the phone out of their pocket, and tossed it to him.

“It’s not a communal phone. Go get yours fixed or buy a new one,” they huffed, going back to their notes.

Keith just nodded absently, trembling as he thumbed in the passcode and opened up the message again.  

 

**From Unknown Number [9:43am]:**

_ So besides candy cherries, what else do you like to eat? ;) _

**To Unknown Number [1:32pm]:**

_ Anything but Chinese food. _

**From Unknown Number [1:34pm]:**

_ How’s tomorrow night sound? _

**To Unknown Number [1:34pm]:**

_ Sounds perfect.  _

  
  


 

The restaurant Shiro picked for them was upscale, expensive, and had a dress code much more formal than anything that Keith owned.  The lights were dim enough that it was hard to make out the faces of people already seated at the tables scattered around the dining room floor.  It was a bit disconcerting, and Keith had to look away and remind himself that it was trick of the light.  Shiro didn’t seem perturbed by the looks they were getting because of their lack of formal wear, walking up to the hostess to ask for a table for two without blinking an eye.  They were seated somewhere in the back before Keith had time to be self conscious.

“Have you been here before?” Shiro asked as he pulled off the trench coat he’d been wearing, too heavy for the season.  Keith gave him a look as they took their seats, as though his general appearance didn't answer that question for him.  People who ate at places like this generally had the money to pay for it, and he had already told Shiro that he worked part time to have just enough to cover his rent.  Shiro seemed to pick up on that because he let out a small laugh that had Keith stomach pitching up towards his throat.  “I don’t come here often.  It’s a little posh for my taste.”

“Using the word ‘posh’ makes you posh enough for here,” Keith pointed out, and Shiro just laughed and waved off the accusation.  “You could have told me to dress up a little.  I do own nicer clothes.”  A lie, but not the point.  

Shiro just shrugged, his smile never once leaving his face.  “I think you look nice.”

“Liar,” Keith accused, although his face still heated up.  Shiro seemed to find amusement in that, because he laughed again.  A true sadist, Keith decided.  He didn’t have time to point out that Shiro hadn’t denied it before their waiter came over and thoroughly derailed his train of thought.  He was tall, exceptionally so from where Keith was sitting, dressed in all black except for the red bowtie around his neck.  He eclipsed the faint light above them, and the silhouette made it hard to see his face.

“Anything to drink?” he asked in a low voice without bothering to introduce himself.  

Shiro, seeming entirely unperturbed that they were being waited on by what appeared to be a grim reaper, smiled as he turned to face him.  “A gin and tonic, please.”

Keith rolled his eyes, before realizing the Grim Waiter was waiting for him to order as well.

“G-Ginger ale,” he managed to say although it came out more timid than he’d hoped it would.  But Keith couldn’t see the man’s face well enough to know if he was being judged for his stutter, and he left without another word.  Shiro was watching him as he went, his brow furrowing slightly.  There was a moment’s pause, before he turned back to Keith, a slightly concerned expression on his face.  

“W-What?” Keith asked, cursing his voice again for cracking.

Shiro waited another moment before speaking, tongue moving over his teeth behind his lips. 

“How old are you?”

There was a pregnant pause as Keith digested that question, and a laugh began bubbling up his throat.  He tried his best to swallow it down, although a small choked sound still escaped him.  Shiro didn’t seem encouraged by that, one eyebrow quirking up suspiciously.  

Keith cleared his throat and forced his expression to match Shiro’s.  “Shouldn’t you have asked me that before you asked me out?”

He watched as Shiro opened his mouth, licking his lip while he searched for a way to respond.  “Well, hindsight is always 20/20.”

Keith didn’t hesitate.  “I’m eleven.  Just started middle school this year.  I’m learning how to ride a--”

“Well, in that case,” Shiro laughed, cutting him off and looking around the room.  “I guess I should get the check now.”

Keith was trying his best to bite back a grin, but he was failing.  Shiro’s genuine laughter was like music in his ears, loud enough to make his pulse beat faster.  He moved his foot under the table to find Shiro’s leg, and nudged it to get his attention back.

“I’m twenty two.” 

Shiro looked back at him, squinting suspiciously.  “How do I know I can believe you?  You definitely look closer to eleven.”  Keith kicked his leg and Shiro let out a small  _ oof _ of pain.  “Alright, fine.  You could have ordered a drink.  It made me a bit suspicious that you didn’t.”

Keith just shook his head.  “I don’t drink.”

“Any reason?” Shiro asked, putting his elbow on the table to rest his chin in his hand, genuine interest on his face. 

“Medication,” Keith shrugged.  “It stops me from indulging myself.”  

The more accurate answer was that Pidge would murder him if he drank while on his medication, but he didn’t see the need to get into that.  He didn’t want Shiro to think he was incapable of taking care of himself or that he was irresponsible without a guardian, regardless of the fact that it was true.  

Shiro just nodded, seeming to understand that.  “Can I ask what it’s for?”

“Leprosy,” Keith deadpanned without missing a beat.

“Ah, I see,” Shiro grinned, taking the hint and shaking his head.  “I guess I shouldn’t touch you then.”

Keith hummed, picking up his fork and twirling it a bit between his fingers.  “Only if you want your skin to start falling off.”

There was a moment where Shiro seemed to consider that, before shrugging.  “Well, luckily for you, I’m into that.” 

“I cannot believe I have to kinkshame you on the first date.”

Drinks were placed down in front of them and Keith jumped, not having noticed their waiter return.  He said nothing as he straightened up, looming over them with his silhouetted face that Keith couldn’t bring himself to look up at.  He knew that now was when people usually would order food, and he began to panic realizing he’d yet to even look at the menu.  But as usual, Shiro continued as though unconcerned.  

“Do you have any cocktail umbrellas?” he asked, and Keith’s head whipped around to face him.  Shiro winked at him before turning back to the Grim Waiter.  “We’d both like one, if you do.”

If the man gave any response, Keith didn’t catch it before he turned and walked away.  Keith kicked Shiro hard under the table, glaring at him.  Shiro smiled innocently, picking up their previously ignored menus and handing over across the table to him.  Keith took it, still glaring, before raising it in front of his face to block out Shiro from view.

The menu didn’t have prices listed.

He peeked over the top to see if Shiro had noticed that too, but if he had he wasn’t acknowledging it.  Keith frowned, lowering his gaze again and scanning over the options.  Italian food.  His mouth dried a bit at the thought.  He could already feel the burn of the garlic in the back of his throat, and lowered his menu to reach for his drink and wet his tongue again.  

“You okay?”

Keith looked up, eyes wide, and caught Shiro’s gaze.  He must’ve been making some sort of face, because Shiro looked a bit concerned.  He nodded, glancing away as he took a drink, coming up with some excuse.  He went with the first one that came to mind.

“There’s just no prices,” he choked out, swallowing his drink wrong and coughing.  “I don’t want to--”

“Don’t worry about that,” Shiro insisted, reaching to rub at the back of his neck.  Keith found his eyes wandering to it, over the exposed skin above the collar of his shirt.  Shiro was pale, and lean enough to see the tendon in his neck faintly move as he spoke.  Suddenly, Keith felt very hungry.  “Get whatever you want.”

Keith hesitated, before choking down his other concerns and looking back at the menu.  The only place he ever ate out was the shop two floors under his apartment, and by now he knew that menu by heart.  He heard Shiro put his menu down on the table, and out of the corner of his eye saw him reach for his drink.  He was taking too long with this.  He needed to--

“The chicken is pretty good, if you want a second opinion.” Shiro said, interrupting his thoughts.  Keith looked up at him, and Shiro smiled back.  He felt Shiro’s foot touch his under the table, and Keith let out a slow breath, trying to relax.  

“I thought you didn’t come here a lot,” he managed to say once he’d composed himself, nudging Shiro’s ankle.  “How do you know what’s good?”

“I used to come here more often.”

Keith hummed, putting down his menu and deciding that taking Shiro’s word was a lot easier than deciding on what he wanted himself.  He was going to ask Shiro why he stopped coming, but was cut off again by the sudden presence of their waiter standing over them.  A red cocktail umbrella was dropped into his glass, and Keith eyed it, making a mental note to stab Shiro with it once they were left alone again.  They ordered, Keith stuttering again as he tried to pronounce the name of the chicken thing that Shiro had suggested.  The waiter either didn’t notice or didn’t care, and left without another word once they had finished talking.

“He seems friendly,” Shiro laughed.  

He picked the umbrella out of his glass and tossed it across the table.  “He reminds me of the servant in some gothic castle.  He’s an  _ Igor _ .” 

Shiro thought about that for a moment, before humming.  “Seems like a person you’d be familiar with.”

“Why?”

“Well as a ghostbuster, I’d imagine you having to deal with Dr. Frankenstein types.  And his monsters.”

“He  _ is _ the monster,” Keith corrected, before shaking his head.  His voice had gained more confidence now that Igor was gone again.  Talking to Shiro was surprisingly easy, enough so that it didn’t even cross Keith’s mind to be nervous.   “How many gothic castles or evil laboratories have you seen in this city? Usually it’s like abandoned motels or alleyways.”

“Haunted places,” Shiro smiled.  “Can I ask you about it?”

Keith shrugged, and nodded. He didn’t know Shiro bothered asking permission when he’d already brought it up, but he guessed he appreciated the sentiment.  It wasn’t like it was a sensitive topic, and Shiro had seen him working first hand.  But Keith understood a bit.  It was a glimpse into another world.  It wasn’t exactly common knowledge to the average citizen that this city was crawling with Hell’s leftovers.  Honestly, Keith didn’t find it very interesting.  It was more annoying than anything that he’d ended up here, a garbage man for all the trash that caused trouble in the shadows of the city.  But it passed the time, he guessed. 

“Is it mostly ghosts like at the bar?” he asked.

“Poltergeist,” Keith said under his breath, and shook his head.  “Actually, those are sort of rare.  Not unheard of but not as common.  Usually it’s more goblins and ghouls and all those Halloween things.”

“So I should expect to see you out werewolf hunting during the next full moon?”

Keith shook his head, tucking his hands between his legs and shifting in his seat.  “We don’t hunt humanoids.  Anything that is sentient, or whatever.  Werewolves, vampires, et cetera.  All of those are off limits.”

“Vampires, huh?” Shiro asked.  Keith noticed the way he sucked his lower lip into his mouth for a moment, how he adjusted his legs under the table, and wondered it if surprise or maybe even a bit of fear that provoked the movement.  Or maybe he was reading too much into it.  “You run into those often?”

Keith reached up to rub at his neck subconsciously, looking down at the table.  “No.”

“Probably a good thing,” Shiro mused, and Keith wholeheartedly agreed.  He tried thinking of something else to say about it, to move the conversation on, but Shiro, as always, seemed not to falter at all in his train of thought. “Who makes the rules?”

“Rules?”  Keith looked up at him, an eyebrow raised, and quirked his head to the side.  “What rules?”

“Well you said they were off limits?  Who decided that?”

Keith opened his mouth, but no words came out.  His hands felt a bit cold, and he could nearly feel the pick of the splinters in his fingers again despite how long it’d been since he’d held a stake in his hand.  His lungs felt a bit heavy in his chest, and his stomach churned like a storm inside him.  

_ It’s time to stop pretending you’re some great hero. _

“P-Pidge,” Keith choked out, sucking in a hard breath.  Shiro’s eyes widened and he reached across the table, putting his hand down in front of Keith as though offering it as an anchor.  Keith stared for a moment, taking in the smooth metal.  Up until now, he’d nearly forgotten.  Shiro wasn’t entirely human either.  He gave in, taking the hand and squeezing.  The metal didn’t give the same way Pidge’s hands did, and he grounded himself in the firm hold.  

It looked like Shiro wanted to say something, had opened his mouth as though to speak, but there was an audible buzz from his jacket that stole both their attentions.  It buzzed, and buzzed, and Keith realized it was his phone.

“Answer it,” he insisted, pulling his hand away and sitting back.  He took a deep breath, cursing himself for his slip up and making a mental note not to mention it to Pidge.  Shiro looked like he was going to refuse, but turned anyway to dig the phone out of the pocket.  He looked at it for a moment, before offering it across the table.

“You’re calling.”

**Incoming Call: Keith**

Keith took it and answered. 

“Pidge?”

“Oh good, you’re still with him,” Pidge’s voice said through the receiver.  “I need you to take care of something on your way home.”

“I’m off today,” Keith insisted with little hope that they would relent.  They didn’t.

“It was last seen by one of the gas stations, but I don’t have many details.  People are posting online about some weird shadow thing walking around.” 

Keith closed his eyes, before giving Shiro an unamused look across the table that was meant for Pidge.  “So I’m looking for a shadow at a gas station?”

“Yeah.”

Shiro’s eyebrows were raised, and he mouthed a clear “ _ what _ ” at him.  Keith shook his head, raising a finger to tell him to wait.

Pidge continued.  “Just check it out on your way home.  If you can’t find anything then don’t worry about it.  There haven’t been any signs of it hurting anyone yet.”

“ _ Yet _ ,” Keith repeated.  “Fine. I’m hanging up.”

“Be safe, use protec--”

Keith ended the call, sighing, and handed the phone back to Shiro.  Shiro took it, still giving Keith a confused look, but didn’t say anything before his phone was safely away again.  He straightened up.  “Everything good?”

“How would you like to be ghostbuster?” Keith asked, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips.  

Shiro blinked, before laughing.  “Honestly, I thought you’d never ask.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'll post chapter 2 soon" I said.... and now months later, we are here. I will try not to take too much time for the next update, I have a clearer idea of where I'm going with this story now. Thanks for reading, I'd love to hear what you thought! 
> 
> Check out my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WHlTELION)!

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter was fun to write, so I can't wait to write more to share with y'all! Any other warnings for chapters (such as NSFW or graphic violence) will be put in the notes at the beginning of chapters were it's necessary, and I will update the character list/other tags once things start happening. I don't like giving too much away;;
> 
> Check out my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WHlTELION)!


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